Chapter Two
Cicadia Castle
Cheltenham
“What did your father say?”
The question came from a young woman far too eager for information that didn’t concern her in the least. But it concerned her cousin, and in her mind, that made it her business, whether or not it actually was.
She was addressing a young woman in a pale shift with a surcoat of thin, yellow wool over it. The young woman was ethereal in her beauty, with long blonde curls to her buttocks and a face of perfect porcelain. For certain, tales of the beauty of Diara le Bec were far and wide.
For good reason.
“Hush,” Diara said as she entered the chamber and shut the door.
She went so far as to grab her cousin and slap a hand over her mouth, dragging her to the other end of the chamber, where a cushioned window seat overlooking the small bailey awaited them.
Only then did she remove her hand from her cousin’s mouth and shove her onto the seat.
“Well?” her cousin said anxiously. “What has happened?”
Diara appeared genuinely distressed. “Terrible news, I am afraid,” she said. “It would seem that Beckett de Lohr was killed in an accident a short time ago. My father has just received word of it, and he is beside himself.”
Her cousin’s eyes widened in shock. “Nay!” she gasped. “It cannot be!”
“I am afraid it is.”
Diara spoke grimly, but genuine grief wasn’t there. She spoke of the incident in an almost detached manner, which gave her cousin pause when responding. In truth, she reacted the only way she could.
With polite pity.
“I am so terribly sorry,” her cousin said. “Is that what your father wanted to speak with you about?”
“Aye.”
“But what happened to him? What kind of accident?”
Diara sighed sharply. “A horse threw him,” she said, putting her hand to her head to stave off the headache that was coming on.
She suffered from them regularly, sometimes so powerful that she couldn’t rise from her bed.
“Please do not ask any further questions, Iris. I cannot answer them right now. This news… it is devastating.”
Lady Iris le Bec was about to disobey her cousin’s request, but she could see by the look on Diara’s face that the woman was serious about no more questions.
Devastating? Perhaps.
But to whom?
The betrothal between Diara and Beckett de Lohr had only been sealed for a couple of years, but in that time, she’d met the handsome Beckett only once.
They’d spent some time together. Beckett hadn’t been particularly attentive, but Diara was certain she could change that with time.
He seemed to be a dreamer, too—he wanted to travel and do great things, things that didn’t include a wife, and he’d told her so.
Diara hadn’t told her father about those conversations, mostly because it would have enraged the man, so she kept it to herself.
She was convinced she could change Beckett’s mind once they were married, and she’d clung to that hope, though deep down, perhaps she wasn’t entirely certain she could make the man into something he didn’t want to be.
But she was determined to be a good wife because that was what her parents wanted.
And now this.
But knowing all of that… why was she speaking of devastation at the news?
Iris wondered.
“Deedee, I must ask you a question,” she said. “Mayhap it is not a kind question, but I feel I must ask.”
“What is it?”
“Did you feel something for him that I was unaware of?” she asked. “I am certain your father is upset, and I know why, but it seemed to me that he was more excited about this marriage than you ever were.”
Diara looked at her sharply. “That is a terrible thing to say.”
Iris averted her gaze. “As I said, it was not a kind question,” she said. “I do not mean to be cruel, but Uncle Robin always seemed much happier about the marriage than you were. He spoke of it so frequently, while you… you were less inclined to speak of it.”
Diara knew she was right. It was certainly a terrible thing to say, but it wasn’t untrue. She couldn’t hold up a front any longer because Iris, who had lived with her family for years, knew everything that went on. She knew the players, she knew the nuances, and she knew the situation.
She knew what Diara thought of her intended.
There was no use denying it.
With a sigh, Diara sat heavily opposite her cousin on the window seat.
“Two years ago, my father came back from France crowing about the betrothal he’d made with the House of de Lohr, a marriage he’d practically sold his soul for, or so he said,” she said wearily.
“He’d arranged a contract with the Earl of Hereford and Worcester’s second son, Richard, the man named after the Lionheart.
According to my father, Richard de Lohr will replace his father as the greatest knight in the realm once his father passes away, and his son would enjoy all of the benefits of such respect.
That means his son will enjoy the same prestige. ”
Iris was watching her cousin closely. “I know.”
“Then Beckett came here with his father.”
“I was here.”
“And you saw what went on.”
Iris nodded slowly. “I saw a man who was arrogant and apathetic towards you,” she said. “Beckett was not kind to you in the least.”
Diara put her hands over her face. “It was worse than that,” she said. “You saw what happened. He would mostly ignore me, but the moment I spoke to any man other than him, he would glare at me.”
“But he hardly spoke to you himself!”
Diara threw up her hands in despair. “He called me a whore before he left,” she said, verging on tears. “Do you remember that? He told me that he’d heard all about how I had dozens of men following me around, and he said that only a whore would have such a following.”
Iris went to sit next to her, putting her arm around her shoulders.
“He did not know you,” she said softly, with encouragement.
“He did not know that you are bright and witty and men are naturally attracted to you. You are a happy, sweet woman, Deedee. Beckett could not see that through his suspicion and jealousy.”
Diara flicked a tear from her eye. “I’ve never even been kissed,” she said sadly. “How can I be a whore?”
“I know,” Iris said, giving her a hug. “But it is not for lack of trying. From men, I mean. Some of your admirers are here at Cicadia, and they hang on every word you speak. They would gladly give you a kiss if you would let them.”
Diara snorted softly. “My father’s knights?” she said, smiling weakly at something she didn’t find particularly humorous. “One of them has probably never taken a bath in his life, another one is simply a good friend, and the last one is too, too old. I have known him since I was a child.”
Iris removed her arm from the woman’s shoulders and clasped both of Diara’s hands in her own. “Though I am sorry for Beckett’s death, because surely it is a terrible thing for his family, I do believe it is a good thing for you,” she said. “You were going to be miserable with him, Deedee.”
Diara wouldn’t look at her as she shook her head. “That is not true.”
“It is,” Iris insisted. “I have watched you try to convince yourself for two years that this will be a good marriage. We both know it would not be. Beckett made it clear he does not want a wife, and he made it very clear that he was unhappy his father had forced him into a betrothal. He would have made you miserable.”
“I would have been a good wife.”
“To a man who did not want one?”
“He was young,” Diara argued weakly. “That’s all I really saw in him—immaturity. He would learn to appreciate a wife as he grew older.”
Iris sighed sharply. “That is your mother talking,” she said. “Aunt Annie was trying to convince you that all would be well if you would only be patient. But she was wrong.”
Diara looked at her then. “She had no choice,” she said, suddenly firm. “I had no choice. Truth be told, I was not happy my father forced me into a betrothal either, but there was nothing I could do about it.”
“There is now.”
Iris was right. Diara knew she was right, and as she thought on that, she began to nod her head. “Papa has been trying to marry me off for years,” she said. “He told me that I would only marry the highest bidder, and Beckett’s father must have bid dearly. But now there is no longer a betrothal…”
“And?”
“And I can tell my father just what I want in a husband.”
“What would that be?”
Diara stood up, moving to the window and gazing over the fertile landscape of the softly rolling hills around Cheltenham. Overhead, birds rode the drafts as the clouds began to roll in from the west.
She could smell the rain.
“I do not want a boy,” she said. “Beckett was a boy, hardly older than I. I want a grown man.”
“Handsome?”
“Of course,” Diara said. “Handsome and strong, mature, responsible. Someone who wants a wife and is prepared to treat her like… like…”
“Like what?”
“Like she is important.” Diara turned to look at her.
“Like she matters to him. Iris, I spent years at Carisbrooke with the pages and squires as my friends because the girls were petty and would not talk to me. Lady de Redvers was the worst of them, and so were her awful daughters. Because the boys were my friends, I was accused of being unladylike. I was accused of teasing them. But you know I did not; never did I tease anyone. Had they not been my friends, I would have had no friends at all. But my father thinks I was a harlot because of that vicious gossip from spiteful women.”
Iris shook her head. “He did not think that,” she said. “He did not listen to the gossip of fools.”